Spring.

My eyes close,
birds chirping all around me
and traffic, oh, that too
but spring is in the wind
brushing hair into my eyes like a
child, giggling I’m sure.

Raymond Carver falls to my chest as
I doze
and I think even here, where the ants
can find me, I’ll be safe
blanketed by his words.
How brutal he felt love was.
He kept writing about it, though.

Do you ever sit in a park and dream
that an old love will walk by?
Harm’s ghost undone,
by the sound of trees evolving
above you…
God.
This world is too beautiful not to
share.